Wednesday, 31 January 2018

On my knees

"PLEASE approve my mortgage! Pleaaaaaaaase!!!"
This painting, Jupiter and Thetis, by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (1811), is for kinky fans of big brooding men and supplicant women. In the original legend Thetis, the sea-nymph, goes to ex-boyf Zeus to beg him to intervene in the Trojan War on behalf of her mortal son, Achilles
It works, btw.

Things I have learned during the half-year house-moving process:

  • Mr Ashbless must love me very very much.
  • If you e-mail any British company with an offer of money for their advertised services, the chance of you getting any response whatsoever is about ... 40% tops.  If you really want them, phone.
  • Banks are incompetent. Like, unbelievably incompetent. We've lost track of the number of times we've phoned or sent them information/money, only for them to fail to log it in the computer and deny any record that they've ever spoken to us. Repeatedly. HSBC actually sent us a crate of wine to apologise for arsing us around for months, but I still hate them.
  • If you are trying to get a interest-only mortgage, when they ask you how you're going to pay it off, FFS do NOT regale them with talk of savings, investments, rental income, inheritances or any carefully-worked financial plan you have. That will just bring everything to crashing halt. The magic words are, "We will make regular overpayments." That is all they want to hear and all they will accept.
  • There is NOTHING you can do to your old house to make people buy it. They either like it or they don't, and buyers are mostly crazy. Just Febreze the shit out of everything and cross your fingers.
  • The whole chain system is bolloxed. How ANYONE ever manages to synchronise with half-a-dozen other buyers + lenders/solicitors/removal companies to move house on the same bloody day is absolutely beyond comprehension. We didn't even try, in the end.

Anyway, it's all signed, sealed and hopefully soon will be delivered. We've even accepted an offer on our old place!

2018 FTW!

Monday, 29 January 2018

Blue Monday: L N Bey guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is L N Bey with an excerpt from their short story Girl B, included in Dancing With Myself: Stories of Self-Love Erotica, which is a new anthology from Sexy Little Pages.

Nine sizzling, sexy stories of self-love and self-discovery, edited by (and with a story from) Jillian Boyd, featuring Dena Hankins, T.C. Mill, Jordan Monroe, Leandra Vane, LN Bey, Jones, Hollis Queens and Rachel Woe.

In this sensually spellbinding collection, nine authors explore just a couple of the ways one can get themselves off – stories that don’t just home in on the how, but explore the why, and the “oh... oh my”. Dancing With Myself delves into the heads and between the sheets of a long-distance submissive and her dominant, a cam girl reminiscing, an artist entranced with her unusual subjects and many more.

“Don’t you want to know how the story ended?” Angie said.

“What story?” Bree asked.

“The one I read to Trey.”

“You told me. The woman had suggested it herself.”

“That was the twist. But they all lived happily ever after, happier than they were before, even.”

“With another slave girl in the house? I doubt that.”

“No really, they did. Because the new girl wasn’t there to replace her. He brought her in to serve her.”


“And him too, of course. It’s got this long threesome scene. They made her do everything. Did everything to her. Both of them. They kept her very busy—had her tied up, tied down, oh my God. It ends with these hints of all the things they had yet to do, every day, for ever and ever.” She tilted her head and smiled an innocent, angelic smile.

Bree felt hot blood rush to her face.

“They decided to call her Girl B. And the main character was Girl A.” Angie leaned forward. “Get it? Angie, Girl A? Bree, Girl B?” She gestured to Bree. “It was all right there in the story! It’s perfect. Who else would I suggest, when he asked me? Some stranger off the internet? It had to be someone I trusted. And who I thought was hot.”

Bree folded her arms. She had never really thought of herself as especially hot. “I can’t tell if you’re serious, or just messing with me.”

“Why don’t you ask the Master himself?” Angie said. “Hey, baby.”

Bree turned.


He was standing on the sidewalk, on the other side of the iron railing that separated the café from the moving lines of downtown shoppers. He was wearing his usual sawdust-covered jeans, but with a decent buttoned shirt and a black sports jacket. His hair was heavy and wavy, and he was wearing wraparound sunglasses that hid his eyes.

He looked good. Very good.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, leaning on the rail behind Bree.

“Hi, sweetie,” Angie said. Sweetie, after he’d just whipped her ass with a crop. “We were just talking about you.”

How does one stop a blush? Bree tried to think about work.

“Hi, Trey,” she said, but couldn’t quite look him in the eye.

“Bree.” He was smiling. “So, what were you two saying?”

“I was just telling Bree about our recent explorations into contemporary literature.”

“Oh, really! And what are your opinions, Bree? On our recent explorations into contemporary literature?”

“Oh my God, Bree,” Angie said. “Your face is so red.”

* * * *

Bree lay on her back on her bed, every stitch of her clothes somewhere between the door and here; she didn’t know, didn’t care.

She lay spread-eagled, both legs outstretched, one arm reaching up behind her head. Her other hand was toggling her clit ferociously, pressing it hard, pausing only briefly to fuck herself with two fingers. Three fingers. She raised her hips off the bed and moaned.

She kept her legs spread wide, because in her mind she was tied up that way.

Girl B.

She was tied down, ankles and wrists cuffed with ropes running to the bedposts (even though her bed had no bedposts), her body stretched tight.

In her mind, both arms were stretched and bound, but of course that would mean releasing her hand from her clit. Her wet, desperate clit. And she just couldn’t seem to do that.

She moaned again. Trey was telling her to spread wider, to make herself available. To open her mouth. And Trey would kneel on the bed beside her, right by her face, and order her to lick his cock.

“Reach for it,” he would say, and she would crane her neck and reach out with her tongue until she—
Bree came. Hard. She panted as the intense waves of release flowed through her, tensing, tensing, tensing, until she nearly cried out as the relief came.

But it wasn’t enough.


She was still tied down; they were just getting started. Yes.

Where was she? Oh yes—she was licking his hard cock, up and down its shaft, licking his balls, wanting it all in her mouth, wanting him to fill her mouth with his hard dick.

“Beg for it,” Trey would say, and she would.

“Please!” Bree said out loud, and hoped no neighbors heard.

“Now, beg Angie to whip you while you suck my cock.”

Bree couldn’t bring herself to actually say this out loud. “Please, Ange, whip me. Whip me hard while I suck Trey’s cock,” she said in her mind, and he shifted closer to her and grasped her hair and proceeded to fuck her mouth as she tightened her lips around it.

“You heard her—whip her,” Trey would say.

She felt the whip, the crop Angie had told her about, as Angie began to hit Bree, on her breasts as she moaned into Trey’s huge cock (she assumed it was huge); across her stomach, then harder against her spread thighs, spread so, so wide.

God damn it, she thought, as she came again, even harder this time.

“Whip me,” she whispered, out loud. Her entire body shuddered.

Tied up or not, Bree now brought her legs together, squeezed them tight with her hand still inside her, clamped her muscles hard as she rolled to her side and curled into a ball. She shuddered again.

She would not fuck her best friend. No.

But Trey was noticing her ass as she rolled over. (Never mind how she’d done that while tied down so securely.)

“Well, will you look at that, Girl A?” he’d say to Angie. “No whip marks at all on that smooth little ass. I think you’d better fix that.”

And he would recommence fucking her mouth while she begged and cried, the stinging crop heating up the flesh of her backside, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Because she was Girl B.

Her soaking wet fingers found her clit yet again.

Buy Dancing with Myself , edited by Jillian Boyd, at:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Sexy Little Pages

LN Bey is the author of the erotic novel Blue and the almost-a-novel collection of erotic stories Villa, to be released later in 2018. Besides being included in Dancing With Myself, LN’s short stories have been published in The Big Book of Submission 2, Best Bondage Erotica 2015, Love Slave: Sizzle, and the soon to be released No Safewords 2. LN’s reviews and essays on BDSM can be found at

Follow LN on Twitter: ln_bey
or on Amazon 

Sunday, 28 January 2018


My Myers-Briggs profile is INTJ, which apparently means I need to write lists...

Yeah yeah, my handwriting is shitty. I'm a leftie.

Yes, the move is on!

Thursday, 25 January 2018

Alma mater

My recently published story In Appreciation of their Cox is set in the city and university of Durham, in the north of England, though you won't see the name of the university anywhere in the text.

It was an amazing place to live as a student, sort of like Hogwarts - a "city" only in name, because it has a magnificent cathedral, but smaller than most towns, and centred around a wooded historical peninsula.

It has a castle too - which is one of the colleges that make up the university.

Yeah, we we're a privileged bunch in EVERY sense...

Durham was where I did my degree, and though I never rowed, the rowing teams were a very visible part of college life. I certainly knew where the college boat house was.

Durham was where I first discovered that I liked Indian food. It was where I first got drunk (I was a slow starter with a sheltered childhood, okay...). It was where I found LOADS OF FRIENDS who I felt I really had things in common with for the first time in my life. I joined the Games Society, ran my own Call of Cthulhu games, and I started LARPing.

I got laid at last (TOLD you I was a slow starter!). I lost my religion.

Oh the relief

I've still got many of those friends. I'm married to one of them right now. And I still LARP ...
... which is quite frankly one of the reasons I need a bigger house

As I prepare to move house now, in 2018, I'm aware that I don't really attach to places I live. I won't feel sad about moving home - I'm excited by the change. Durham was an exception to that rule, perhaps the only one in my adult life. Leaving in 1989 was difficult and unpleasant, and I don't think I got over it or properly detached for years.

In Appreciation of their Cox is mostly a joyous gangbang story about fit young people - no, I did NOT do that at university, sorry to disappoint y'all - but it's also a nostalgic elegy to a place I will always love and a meditation on letting go.


Monday, 22 January 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today I am delighted to announce that In Appreciation of their Cox - my second self-published venture and the first with a "red for erotica" cover - is UP ON SALE at Amazon and elsewhere 😍

Eight tall, muscular men straining every sinew, and one itty-bitty young woman urging them on with all her might. That’s rowing for you.

Joanna is a coxswain for a top British university rowing team. She spends her days with eight tall, handsome, muscular men in tight shorts, and she adores every one of them, but she’s never succumbed to temptation and done anything naughty with any of them. Her relationship with her rowers has been strictly professional and sporting. Until now, that is.

Now she’s leaving the university and there’s one last celebratory meal for the team. Tonight, all eight men get to show their enthusiastic cox their heartfelt appreciation in a demonstration no one will ever forget…

“Who’s going to fuck me?” I whisper.

“All of us,” Murray answers, running his hand up his engorged member all the way to the glistening head. “Can you take it, Coxey?”

I nod, mesmerized. My pussy is aching to be filled. I want all of them inside me at once, though that’s obviously impossible. “Who’s going to fuck me first?”

“Stroke goes first,” says Murray. “Of course he does.”

It makes sense. They’re used to following the Stroke’s lead in the boat. He’s first among equals. Even Fergus doesn’t object when Nils picks me up from my knees and clasps me to him, wrapping my legs about his hips. I can feel his cock poking my butt and I wonder if he’s going to try to do it just like that, standing and holding me up—it’s not impossible, I feel like a doll in his huge embrace—but he carries me back over to the bar counter. The others gather round to watch. Seven more men, wanting their turn.

Oh hell, I think. It’s suddenly become real, not just a lovingly honed fantasy. Have I bitten off more than I can chew? They’re going to fuck me. They’re all going to fuck me. They’re going to take it in turns to bang my cunt and my mouth and fill me with their come.

And I’m so wet that it’s running out down the crack of my ass.

“Hold on tight.” Nils’ grey eyes are cold, implacable, focused. The eyes of a champion rower.

I grab the brass rail behind my hips with both hands while he takes my weight, grasping my butt cheeks and shifting the angle between our bodies. Someone—it’s Bradley—goes behind the bar. He’s not just after a good vantage point down my body, he takes my shoulders to give me something to brace on, for which I’m grateful. Murray’s got my camera now, I notice. He’s grinning at the view screen.

“Now call time, Cox,” my Stroke says.

“Leg,” I breathe.

Nils slides me down over his helm with a smooth expertise, finding the notch and the hole.


He pushes deep into me, turning my world upside down with the sensation. My eyes spring wide open.


He twists his hips, ramming right home, grinding my clit. I add an extra gasp to the sequence that shouldn’t really be there, and groan, “Glide!” as he slips into the withdrawal stroke. “Leg; Drive; Now; Glide…” I repeat, watching the familiar bead of sweat gather at the indent of his upper lip. Over and over.

Rowing is about rhythm. And discipline. And pain. The men watch, breathless and avid. There’s just enough of my brain functioning to wonder whether Nils was fantasizing about this every time he sat in front of me in the shell and pulled an oar to my orders. But most of my attention is demanded by the gathering knot of tension in my sex, a glow that gets brighter and fiercer and crueler as it contracts to a focal point, like the bead of light thrown by a magnifying glass that becomes an unbearably brilliant point, then ignites the tinder beneath it—and quite suddenly I am ignited too and burning, all rhythm abandoned and even the power of speech lost, as Nils thrusts into me and my legs kick helplessly and every muscle in my body contracts and spasms along with my orgasm. It’s a very loud one.

Nils comes too upon hearing me climax, uttering only a single grunt, his face barely changing expression but his jiz gushing into the tight grip of my pussy. Then he grabs me up and holds me against his chest, and I’m so fucking relieved because despite Bradley’s support my arms are shaking with strain. That’s when Nils kisses me. My heart turns over and seems to bloom. He’s Stroke—he sets the example, and they’ll all follow. The kiss is tender and deep, and though he must be able to taste Darren’s cum on my tongue he’s not bothered. It’s a kiss of utter satisfaction. He breaks it at last with a little sigh, and then spins on his heels with a barked laugh, whirling me about as if we’re dancing, and I clench my thighs and cling tight to him even as my hands fly free. With a little wuff of breath he slows and lays me down on my back, on a sturdy table. Gently he slips his cock from its sheath. “Thank you,” he says, which makes me laugh.

I close my eyes for a moment, dizzy not just from the spinning, my limbs loose and heavy. My head is lolling off the lip of the short table, my back supported but my thighs hanging over the edge.

“Well,” says Fergus. “If we’re going in order…”

Fergus rows in the seven seat, directly behind Nils. He’s the buffer between Stroke and the middle four. Now he takes Nils’ place between my thighs. I see he’s got a bottle of champagne from behind the bar, and he gives it a little shake.

“Hold her legs up, will you?”

Two of the guys raise my calves. That’s much more comfortable for me. I lift my head to watch Fergus unscrewing the twist of wire that holds the caged cork. There’s a ripe pop like a giant’s kiss and as the cork goes flying the champagne heaves and rushes from the neck of the bottle just like the gush of spunk, some flying out in an arc, some spurting out between Fergus’ fingers and slopping down the bottle. It lands on my spread pussy, a cold shock on those inflamed tissues and a delicious fizzy fountain on my pubic mound, slopping and dribbling down my thighs and into the split of my behind to run onto the floor. It lands on my stomach too, and as Fergus reaches forward, thumb over the bottle-mouth, he directs the squirt of white foam on my belly and breasts, making me arch my back at the sudden shock of the chilled wine. It goes over my throat and my chin and I open my mouth wide to gulp the fizzing ejaculate.

In Appreciation of their Cox is a  10K short story - you can find it on various stores here:

Sunday, 21 January 2018

Fox fight

Damnit, that's all we got ... Still struggling with the camera setup, as you can tell!

Friday, 19 January 2018

If a tree falls in a forest...

We've had gales in our wood this week, and the huge dead oak...

... has fallen at last:

It's been standing dead since well before we bought the land, and tbh I'm surprised it took so long to drop. The roots were completely rotted away:

Luckily it seems to have dodged all the other large trees around and laid itself politely down doing the minimum of damage 😊

Circle of Life, eh?

Wednesday, 17 January 2018

"A conclusion with a bang of near-apocalyptic intensity"

The Other Side (1918) Dean Cornwell

"The cold, hard, commercial truth of the matter is that without reviews, a book simply languishes on the shelf and ultimately dies for want of notice" - How to Write a Review and Why, Maybe, You Should

And I'm particularly delighted that TAS of Erotica for the Big Brain should write a review of The Prison of the Angels, because it's FABULOUS!
"As always, Ashbless ties it all together with such style, such flare, conveying a sense of inevitability—of ineluctable right-ness—with the plot’s every twist and turn, it’s hard to imagine all hell breaking loose in any other way, Or near half so excitingly, for that matter! Of course, throughout, the sex is wicked hot...
In The Prison of the Angels, as in the books that preceded it, Janine Ashbless has created an extraordinary new world, a “real realm of the spirit” that is a sheer pleasure to visit. Enthusiastically recommended."

Thank you TAS!

Buy-links for The Prison of the Angels

Monday, 15 January 2018

Blue Monday: Rebecca Branch guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

For the first Blue Monday Guest Post of 2018 I am delighted to welcome Rebecca Branch, historian and lover of all things Roman, with an excerpt from her century-spanning time-travel romance novel, Great Ceasar's Ghost. The second book in a series, but a stand-alone novel, this book takes the reader to Paris, London, Rome, Berkeley, New York, and the North Atlantic as it wends its way through the fabric of time.

An archaeological find of great note, the personal belongings of Gaius Julius Caesar, sets the stage as a young curator from the Metropolitan Museum in New York discovers he is connected to Caesar by blood and can travel time at his own discretion.

Amassing a fortune through hindsight and stock purchases, Max DuPont sets his sights on meeting his famous ancestor in ancient Rome, but first, he finds the girl of his dreams, an honors student at Harvard. The problem, she lives her life twenty years before Max was born. This story takes you on a harrowing trip where the characters must correct fissures in time and set the world on its preordained course. Written as a romantic adventure with the ebb and flow of historical people and places, Great Caesar’s Ghost is a joyous, smart and sexy read.

In this excerpt Max, having gone back to 1955, meets a lawyer and his trophy wife and accepts their invitation to stay in their Park Avenue apartment. He is alone with Sally, who is lost and forgotten by her husband, when joins him as he showers:

Moving with care, I admitted the tip and circled him with my tongue. The texture is amazing. I tried to slide down further and he swiveled his hips and pumped into my mouth a couple of times, then held still again. I guessed that he wanted me to pump on him in the same way so I pushed down and then back up again and he sighed. Oh God, he’s enjoying this too. I’m so happy. I pulled off and tried to see it clearly, but the darkness only permitted a silhouette. Stroking him with both my hands, I placed my mouth over him again and went down as far as I could. I doubt I managed a third of his length before he hit the back of my throat, but it was an amazing thing to do and I repeated the motion over and over.

He caressed the back of my head and stroked my hair as I started to move back and forth with more determination. For the first time in my life, I was the active partner making love to a man and I reveled in it. I’d never have dreamed of being so aggressive if not for him. He approved of me. He likes the person I am. Oh, look at his face. He’s enjoying himself so much because of my actions. Why is taking a man to my lips so forbidden in my mind? What’s wrong with it? This is terrific and should be a regular part of lovemaking. Who’d of thought…my, my.

“I’m going to cum Sally.”

He’s what? Going to what?

He began to throb and spasm between my lips and his warm silky flow filled my mouth. Oh my God, he’s having his orgasm in my mouth! Oh my God! I held perfectly still and felt my mouth filling with his emission. He started to gently pump his hips and his penis continued to throb between my lips. He moaned and moaned, squeezing my shoulders and calling my name. Oh, Max. This is insane! This is amazing, warm and viscous, milky yet savory. Fill my mouth, Max. Fill it to overflowing. This is for you. It’s all for you. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’ll be your vehicle. I’ll do anything to keep you. I’m so happy, Max.

I stroked my hands over his length and squeezed out the last drops of his flow. It was fantastic. How I loved bringing him here! But now…what do I do with it? I pulled off and tilted my head down, opened my mouth, and let it all fall to the shower floor. What a strange taste. How unusual. Food of the Gods, I thought. I could still taste his flow. I rolled my tongue within my mouth and savored the remnants of his passion, suddenly wondering if I should have swallowed it. Oh my goodness. I want to do that again.

“That was great. Oh God, that was great! A real first for me, but ended way too quickly. I can’t believe you just had an orgasm in my mouth! In my mouth, Maxi! I feel so wicked. That was so unthinkable. Now I suppose I’ll have to wait an hour to get a chance to enjoy myself some more. You will love me some more? Won’t you, Max?”

He grabbed the back of my head again, threading his long, supple fingers through my wet hair and pulled my face up to his, lifting me to my feet by my hair. God how masculine and forceful; never hurting me, but always demanding I go where he goes and do what he wants. Lord almighty, I love being dominated by him. I had no idea, none whatsoever. This is what it’s supposed to be like between a man and a woman. This is what I’ve been missing all my life. My eyes closed and he bit down on my lower lip, gently but firmly. Opening my mouth slightly, he released my lip and kissed me full on my lips. Wow, nothing taught and tentative about his kisses. There is an elasticity in the way he uses his mouth. We explored with our tongues and I was sure he could taste the remnants of his own emission. He evidently had no problem with this so why should I be concerned.

Goodness, I love how he handles me, how he directs me. He grabs my hair, lifts me to my feet and bites down on my skin and lips. How powerful and masculine he is and how I’m responding to him is beyond belief. He’s taught me how to kiss, how to act and react instead of being passive. He’s made me lustful; so lustful that I’ve put his penis in my mouth and drawn his climax onto my tongue. Oh my God, that was terrific, utterly sinful. I want to do it again. I want to do it again right away.

I’m falling in love with this man. I am in love with this man! One day…one day of knowing him. God my life must be a train wreck if one day alone can have this effect. I need to change things. I really must change things around.

Pushing me back down into the bench, he got down on his knees between my legs, spreading them apart. I did not resist this time. He could have whatever he wanted. He cupped my breasts and circled his tongue around my nipples. How sensitive they were; more so than ever before, and I caressed the back of his head as he did this. Bending lower, he spread my folds and ran his tongue up my cleft, circling around my center of pleasure and drawing a series of moans out of me immediately. I can’t believe he’s doing this! Oh God, what this says…what this means!

“Oh, Max, what a modern man you are. Mmmm, what a fantasy.” I pushed myself into the corner of the shower bench, back against the tiled wall, and lifted one foot up on the bench as I pressed his head into me. My hands came down and cradled his head, my fingers threaded through his wonderfully long hair, as I pulled and pushed him into me. He let me direct his motions, following my lead as I tilted his face this way and that. My God, my God! I have a lover whose face is in my vagina! He’s eating me alive, he is. How can this be?

He looked up and I could die looking into those eyes; eyes of need and want. He wasn’t doing this just for me. He loved this. I was his feast!

“Sally, you don’t have to be gentle. Always be a participant. Always take what you want. Mash my face into your pussy. Rub yourself into me. Grind your sex into my face. Suffocate me Sally.”

He took a breath and went back at me with a fervor and I got up on my knees on the bench and pulled his face tight into me, rotating my hips and holding his head tight with both hands. I rocked back and forth, back and forth, rubbing myself against his lips and the stubble on his chin. He buried his face in me and seemed to have no limitations when it came to my own pleasure. Again, I could feel the rising again. I was about to crest up against his beautiful face, pulled tight to my sex. Oh my God, how can this be? I’d given up on any reservations I might have had and grabbed his hair and stuffed my muff into his face as I exploded all over him. The throbbing continued for so long and I thought I’d faint from the expenditure of all my energy and passion. I released his hair, yet he continued to lap at me, sucking all the juices from me and stealing the soul from my body. What pleasure. What unbridled pleasure and release. I reveled in the knowledge that I had finally found a lover. Had Max not come to me, I may never have been to this place, this place of warmth and heat and ecstasy.

Buy Great Caesar's Ghost at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK

Rebecca Branch lives in New York and is the mother of two grown daughters. Professionally, she is an architect, but she trained in Art History and Archaeology in her youth at UC Berkeley for her undergraduate degree and Columbia University for her Ph.D. Although she modeled occasionally for Donna Karan and Calvin Klein while in college and up into her early thirties, her first professional job out of school was as an assistant to the curator of Greco-Roman Art at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. She lectures on the architecture and town planning of the Roman Empire and practices interior design and architecture at an international firm based in New York City.

Art Historian Superhero Facebook Page
Amazon Author Page

Friday, 12 January 2018


A new historical heroine - well, two if you count the artist!

Timoclea of Thebes (1659) by Elisabetta Sirani of Bologna
 The story of Timoclea of Thebes deserves to be better known, not just because she does a feminine Leonidas -

Well, well, well

- but because she both revenges herself on her rapist, and outfaces Alexander the Great.

Timoclea was an aristocratic woman of the walled city of Thebes in Greece, when it was overthrown by Alexander of Macedon. It was a brutal defeat; the Greek soldiers slaughtered about 6000 inhabitants and enslaved 30,000. A Thracian captain (the Thracians were vassals of Alexander) raped Timoclea and then asked her whether she had any treasure hidden away anywhere. "Sure," she said; "I hid it all down this well, over here in the garden." When the dumbass bent over to look, she pushed him in and dropped heavy rocks on him until he was dead. Of course the Thracians took Timoclea captive and dragged her before Alexander, outraged at her unsporting behaviour.

Alexandre et Timoclée (1782) byJean-Charles Nicaise Perrin
Timoclea stood up before the conqueror and basically told him she didn't give a shit. Her brother Theagenes, she told him, had been the last commander of the Theban Sacred Band (an elite force of homosexual couples) who had stood up against Alexander's father Philip at the Battle of Chaeronea in 338 BC and had died "for the liberty of Greece". (Trans: "fuck you, Alex")

Now that's courage! And Alexander was so impressed that not only did he waive any punishment, he ordered Timoclea and her children freed.

And the artist of the pic at top? Here's her self-portrait:

Elisabetta Sirani (1638-1665) was a woman painter, one of the most famous in Italy at the time, and the teacher of other painters both male and female at the school she founded. She was incredibly prolific, producing about 200 painting before her tragically early death at the age of twenty-seven. In fact she was so prolific that she had to stage a demonstration in front of her detractors to prove that yes, she could knock out a portrait that fast.

You can find more of her work and her life story here

Of course, like many other women painters of the Renaissance, she did a hardass Judith and Holofernes picture:

(Some while back I did a fairly extensive post on artistic depictions of the biblical heroine Judith - "virtuous and godly heroine - avenging proto-feminist icon - sadistic femme fatale".)

As Sirani would say: THIS IS BOLOGNAAAAAA! 😀

Wednesday, 10 January 2018


I'm British. A terrible weakness for puns has been imprinted onto what passes for my brain by the all-dominating national culture, particularly the news media:

And yes that includes the BBC, that bastion of respectability:

In fact there seems to be some law that every hairdresser in the land HAS to have a goddawful punning name:

And this chippy is but five minutes from my house:

I admit to several punny titles for my short stories over the  years: Going Out with a Bang: The Icing on the Cake: Issues and Returns: Grinding. But John the cover artist for my soon-to be-republished story howled in complaint at this one!

I don't know what his problem is!

The best title I ever saw for an erotic story, btw, was Exes and Whys - which I believe was by Nikki Magennis. Puns don't have to be crude double-entendres ...

But it doesn't hurt 😜

Monday, 8 January 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

My third collection of short stories, Fierce Enchantments, was re-released by Sinful Press right at the end of last year, so here's an excerpt from my story The Military Mind, which is a torrid alien bug-hunt/gangbang with psionics.

Peyton has been assigned to Lammergeier Squad as their Pslider - a mix of psychic communications operative and sex mascot.

“So. You’re pretty,” Sergeant Jomoa announced. “Looks like we got lucky, boys.”

“I’m ready to get lucky!” laughed one of the men, swaggering in from the side with his hand already rummaging vigorously down his shorts. Peyton glanced sideways at him just as he popped his cock out. The tip looked ruddy and glistening. She shied away, her cheeks filling with blood.

“Stow that, Hayes,” the sergeant grunted.

“Sarge!” he complained.

“You’ll get some, don’t worry. All in good time.” His gaze flicked back to Peyton, weighing her up. “You never seen a man’s dick, Corporal?”

“Yes, of course,” she said huskily.

“Of course?” His eyebrows shot up. “Lots of them, then?”

“Well… pictures. Vids.”

He grinned, and there was laughter all round. It wasn’t very kind laughter. She wavered, heavy-limbed with dread. She’d been brought up by women, among women. Men were all in the military. There was precious little opportunity to meet any man who wasn’t crippled, aged or an officer, even if she had been allowed to socialise freely; even if potential Psliders weren’t kept confined in their training schools, their lives regulated around the clock. These men felt almost as alien to her as the Spiders. Their bulkiness, their rowdiness, their loud voices… even the smell of them was unfamiliar. It made her hair prickle and her palms sweat.

“Vids, huh?” The sergeant patted his thigh and she stepped in closer. “You like watching them?”

Watching them was a compulsory part of her training. Why then, did she squirm inwardly as she answered him? “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Well, that’s something. Let me see those tits, Corporal.”

So, this is it.

She pulled up her grey cotton top, so that her breasts jutted out from beneath. Her aching nipples were hard as bullets now, and aimed right at his head. She saw him lick his lips, and for a moment he seemed lost for words.

“Fuckin’ A,” said one of the others happily. They were all on their feet, all watching. She felt the flush steal down from her cheeks over her breastbone. Her tits quivered with every breath.

“I want me some of that!”

“Fuck yeah. It’s been… way too long.”

“Come on, Sarge!”

“Shush.” Sergeant Jomoa put his warm and callused hand between her knees and drew it up the inside of her thigh, all the way to her cotton panties. Gently, he pressed the edge of that hand up against the cloth. “So you never been fucked?”

“I… uh.” The gentle rubbing of his fingers along her shielded pussy seemed to rob her of words. The cloth was moist with sweat and lube and anticipation, and clung to her as he pressed it in. “I’ve trained on the machines… Sergeant.”


She cleared her throat. “You know.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve got our own machines.” His fingers slid under the fabric of her panties and found her wetness as he added, with a hint of bitterness, “We’re not permitted any real women other than our squad Pslider.”

“Uh,” she whimpered, his slick touch on her clit making her squirm. “I excelled on the machines, Sergeant. Extra credit.”

“That’s good.” He withdrew his hand, an appraising glint in his dark eyes, and sat back in the chair, spreading his thighs. The fabric of his shorts was stretched tight, the fly already gaping to reveal a great curved mass of flesh rising beneath. “So show me. Show me how you earned that extra credit, Corporal.”

Pleasing him was her only way forward. She dropped to her knees and, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar clothes, freed his cock from its constraints. But all her hours of diligent study hadn’t prepared her for this, though she’d worked her way through every colour and size of dildo presented as an option. The real thing wasn’t just big; it was hairy—nested in thick curls, hairy around the balls, hairs even growing up the shaft from the root, like outriders for an army. And it was hot, and a little sticky, and it had a taste totally unlike the plastic and disinfectant she was used to, and it moved—responding to her touch like a live thing, which she supposed it was, in a way—twitching and swelling and stiffening. It seemed immensely thick. Making her mouth wet, she engulfed it, and the sergeant put both hands on her head and pushed deep into her. She felt his bulk nudge the back of her mouth and she heard the rumbling sigh of his satisfaction.

“Not bad, Corporal,” he said, as her head rose and fell in his lap, and she licked and sucked with each stroke. His deep voice had dropped to a huskier note. Then his fingers tightened in her hair. “But if you want to graduate with honours, you need to do this…” he added, pushing her down hard on his erect cock, shoving right into her throat.

She opened up to him. That was something she had practised. She let him do the work and slide her up and down, fucking her throat. His cock was so thick that she knew her jaw would be aching before he was done, but that was a pain she could cope with. Her head whirled with the scent and the taste and the heat of him—so much so that she hardly noticed her panties being pulled down to half-mast behind her or the stiff dick slapping against her splayed bottom. The voices above her were made indistinct by the sergeant’s palms over her ears. Not until her ass-cheeks were parted by rough hands and that dick bounced into the cleft between, rubbing up eagerly against her, did she whimper anxiously.

But the sergeant noticed. He stopped her mid-stroke, allowing her to draw breath through her nose. “You ruining my fine view, Hayes?” he asked.

“I couldn’t help it, Sarge. She was winking at me—look!”

Hayes demonstrated by poking the whorl of her butt-hole with his fingertip. Her ass was well-lubed and exceptionally well-trained, and that digit sank into her without resistance. The sensation—that electric ripple of invasion—was in no way diminished though, and Peyton uttered a muffled squeal around the thick length of NCO rod in her mouth.

“I think she likes it, Sarge,” said Hayes, circling his finger in her anus and making her wriggle.

“You’re no gentleman, soldier,” the sergeant growled. “You haven’t even been introduced and you’re up her ass.” He sat up, pushing Peyton off his cock. She gasped for breath. “Line up, you dirty horndogs, and stand to attention.”

Sunday, 7 January 2018

Oh my goddess!

I came upon this wonderful little movie clip yesterday - click through to Facebook to see the whole thing as I can't post it here - Blogger and FB aren't friends.

It's based on gifs of ancient and prehistoric goddess figures by Nina Paley, which she has released into the public domain - See them all on her website because they are awesome!

Nina is the creator of Sita Sings the Blues and other goddess-themed animations - check her stuff out:

The Golden Calf (Return of the Goddess) from Nina Paley on Vimeo.

Friday, 5 January 2018

On the twelth day of Christmas...

Background: our elderly greyhound Caspian has been sleeping peacefully under the Xmas tree all holiday.

Today, as I cheerfully uttered the fateful words "I'm going upstairs now to do some writing," to my husband (who was lying gripped by a migraine), I opened the curtains and tried to step back over the dog, between the sofa and the tree.

I failed. The tree went flying. A bucketful of water hit the carpet. Mr Ashbless leapt up from his bed of pain and grabbed the tree. The bloody dog just lay there as I flailed around trying to swab up the water with towels. Eventually we forced him to his feet and out of the way.

"What did you do that for, you stupid monkey?"

Grumpily, Caspian tottered into the kitchen, took one look at the closed back door, and pissed ALL OVER THE LINO just to show us how much he disapproved of being disturbed.

Xmas is officially OVER!

Wednesday, 3 January 2018

Cover reveal: In Appreciation of Their Cox

Here's the cover for the second of my self-published works, which I intend to release this month!

In Appreciation of Their Cox is a rollicking rowing-club gang-bang. It was originally printed by Ellora's Cave in 2010 but has reverted to me and will be available for FREE as it's only 10K or so. You'll note that this cover is red for Erotica, not blue for Romance 😛

"Eight tall, muscular men straining every sinew, and one itty-bitty young woman urging them on with all her might. That’s rowing for you."

old cover